I studied him a long moment. The six-year-old with the blue popsicle was gone. In his place sat a man shaped by a toxic system who had somehow refused to be owned by it.

“I’m very glad I came,” I told him.

His shoulders eased, as if a weight had lifted.

Before anyone could say more, loud voices erupted in the hallway — not the noise of celebration. Strained. Panicked. The door burst open without a knock, and Griffin stood there, his face slick with sweat.

“Calder,” he panted. “Your grandfather needs you out there. Now.”

“Why?” Calder didn’t move.